Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  Observing that Brady and Jeff stood high in Mona’s favor, the various outlaws present had accepted them as social equals. Their popularity had increased significantly when it had been learned that they were involved in the bank robbery at Rocksprings. Announcing that he and his nephew had been scouting the premises with similar intentions in mind, Brady had told an interested audience much of what had happened. By the time he had finished, they were accepted as wanted men.

  Although the Brolley brothers had remained aloof, Staff had been one of Brady’s attentive listeners. However, he and his brothers had left without making trouble, or joining in the festivities that had followed the conclusion of the stocky man’s tale.

  Talking to the leader of the handsome young outlaw’s party, after Jeff had informed him of the reason behind Sybil’s actions, Brady had gathered the details which she had hoped to obtain. Apparently the gang had been approached with a proposition. Somebody was offering to sell details of various banks, the type of law enforcement in the respective towns and counties and give suggestions for avoiding suspicion, or evading pursuit if things went wrong. Everything, in fact, that the owlhoots would need to know before making a raid.

  The man who had delivered the message had appeared later in the evening. A tall, lean, one-eyed old timer in worn range clothes, he had been in much demand. Finally he had joined Brady and requested a private conversation. On having permission granted, he had accompanied Brady outside.

  Without wasting time in idle conversation, the old timer had got down to business. If Brady wanted to meet the person responsible for Spit Merton’s improved technique, he should drift down Mara villas Creek at the end of the month. At a point about two miles to the border—as the old man had put it, his attitude implying that the words should, or would, have a significant meaning—Brady could have his curiosity satisfied. Pressed for further details, the old man had grown unresponsive. He had refused to say more than it was a notion which Thinking Fernelley had been considering before going to his death in Mexico; and that his employer was going to auction the information to the highest bidders.

  Ignoring Brady’s attempts to stimulate a more lengthy conversation, the old man had taken his departure. Returning to the bar-room, after the man had ridden away to the north, Brady had spoken with the half-a-dozen gang leaders present. While none of them had admitted they were going to attend the auction, he had seen enough to convince him that they meant to do so. There had been a general desire to avoid friction between the gangs which had struck him as highly significant. Twice, when tempers had grown heated and trouble threatened, the respective leaders of the men concerned had hastened to keep the peace.

  Brady had not needed to wonder why.

  With such a potentially important matter in the offing, no gang leader wanted his affairs to be tangled up by a feud with a rival bunch. That, Brady had decided, was why Staff Brolley had prevented his brothers from taking action against Jeff.

  Mona’s attitude towards the old man’s news had intrigued Brady. When it had been mentioned to her, she had displayed a lack of enthusiasm. Warning that it could be a trap organized by the Texas Rangers—or bounty hunters—she had given Brady the impression that she was trying to dissuade her customers from attending the auction.

  If that had been so, for once Mona failed in an intention. The general feeling had been that the old timer was a reliable and trustworthy member of the outlaw fraternity, even if he had never rated as important in its ranks, and would never be a party to such a deception.

  In addition to being puzzled by Mona’s reaction, Brady had doubted its sincerity. Later that night, while in bed with her, he had endeavored to discover her real motives; but without any noticeable success. She had pretended to be derisive, pointing out that the old man had never worked for Thinking Fernelley as far as she had known and that, anyways, the Thinker was dead.

  Yet, behind the mocking comments, Brady had detected a suggestion of deep interest. That had been all he had achieved. No amount of persuasion on his part had caused her to display her true thoughts or emotions.

  Jeff had spent the night with Sybil in a private room and had claimed, after he and Brady had left the Tavern the following morning, that she was one hell of a loving girl. Enjoyable as the experience had been, Brady was pleased to discover that the red-head had not neglected to clear up one important matter. On questioning Sybil regarding Barnstaple’s name being included on the telegraph message sent out by Minter, she had claimed it had been a mistake which the sheriff would have already cleared up.

  When Jeff had attempted to learn more about her arrival at the Tavern, she had grown uncommunicative. She had said that it had seemed like a good place to gather information, but would not tell him where she had heard of it. When she had flatly refused to divulge the source of her information, he had wisely allowed the matter to drop.

  Next morning, Brady and Jeff had taken their departure.

  They had headed west until sure that they were not being followed, then had turned to the south. Crossing San Francisco Creek, they had come to Maravillas Creek at the point where it was joined by the Big and Little Santiago Forks. Keeping constantly on the alert, they had watched for signs that other outlaw bands were trying to reach the rendezvous ahead of time. There had only been one set of tracks, about half a day old, heading in a southerly direction. They had decided that these might have been caused by the old timer’s horse as he returned to report to his mysterious employer.

  Riding in a down-stream direction, Brady and Jeff had been on the point of making camp when they had seen the glow of a fire. They were in wooded country and, at first, could not see any more than the flickering red glare. Advancing cautiously, yet without trying to prevent their progress from being heard, they peered ahead and waited for their first impressions to form.

  After about a minute, they could see a clearing ahead. There was a small covered wagon, with a team of good-quality harness horses picketed to graze. The only visible occupants of the camp were three women seated on leather trunks by the fire. A fourth, unoccupied trunk implied that there was at least one more member of the party.

  From all appearances, the women belonged to one of the more strict religious sects. They wore plain, shapeless black dresses and spoon bonnets lacking any frills or fripperies. Alongside each of them, on her seat, was a thick leather-bound Bible. They had heard the horses and were looking towards the trees, but did not display any alarm or concern.

  Seated facing towards the direction from which Brady and Jeff were approaching, the oldest of the party paused in her potato-peeling. She was a buxom, good-looking woman and, as far as could be seen under her bonnet, a blonde. Her companions, a beautiful black-haired Mexican and a freckle-faced, vivacious brunette, picked up but did not open their Bibles.

  ‘Hello the camp!’ Brady called. ‘Can we come in, ladies?’

  ‘Feel free,’ answered the blonde. ‘All are welcome here.’

  With the necessary permission received, the two men rode into the glow of the fire. None of the women stood up. Even seated, they looked to be much the same height, but the blonde was several years older than her companions. For all that and despite her figure-concealing, unattractive attire, Brady considered her a fine-looking woman.

  ‘Good evening, ladies,’ Brady greeted, halting his bayo-tigres gelding and doffing his hat with a flourish.

  Following his uncle’s example, Jeff kept silent and used his eyes. That unoccupied place disturbed him and he sought for its occupant. Looking at the wagon, he detected a dark shape inside and his right hand dropped in a casual manner towards the front of his jacket.

  ‘You can come out, Sister Sarah,’ called the blonde, having been watching Brady and Jeff with keen, shrewd eyes. ‘These gentlemen mean us no harm.’

  A fourth woman appeared at the tail-gate of the wagon, laying down the shotgun which she had been holding. Bareheaded, she had flame-red hair and a sultry, beautiful face that seemed at odds with h
er plain black dress. Not even that garment’s unflattering cut could quite conceal the suggestion of a magnificently-formed feminine body underneath. There was a bold, challenging air about her as she swung lithely—and with a carefully contrived display of two very well-formed legs—to the ground. Reaching into the wagon, she extracted another of the heavy Bibles. With that in her hands, she slunk towards the fire using a gait more suited to a saloon girl than to what she appeared to be.

  ‘Put your horses with ours, gentlemen,’ the blonde requested, scowling disapproval at ‘Sister Sarah’. ‘If you’d care to wait, you may share our supper. We’ll have plenty for you.’

  ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ Brady accepted. ‘That’s right obliging of you.’

  ‘What do you make of them, Uncle Brady?’ Jeff inquired as he and his kinsman were attending to the horses.

  Looking over his shoulder, Brady thought before offering to answer. Seen from a distance, the party might have passed as ordinary ‘good’ women who probably belonged to some strict religious sect. Certainly their clothing implied that such was the case. Having been granted the opportunity for a closer examination, Brady was compelled to revise his opinion.

  There’s more to them than meets the eye,’ the stocky man declared.

  By the time the appaloosa and the bayo-tigres had been dealt with, the blonde had resumed peeling the potatoes. Her companions had fetched two more trunks from the wagon and the red-haired ‘Sister Sarah’ had donned a spoon bonnet which did something—but not much—to make her look less voluptuous. She sat sulkily on the opposite side of the fire to the place set for the male guests.

  ‘Are you ladies expecting your men-folks back soon?’ Jeff inquired, glancing around the camp after he and his uncle had seated themselves at the blonde’s invitation.

  ‘We have no men-folks,’ the blonde replied. ‘My name is Elvira Snodgrass. These are my Daughters of the Lord. Sister Sarah, Sister Rosita and Sister Bernadette.’

  ‘Right pleased to make your acquaintances, ladies,’ Brady drawled, nodding to each girl in turn and returning his gaze to the blonde. ‘We’ve heard tell about you, ma’am.’

  ‘We try to spread the Lord’s Word, sir,’ Widow Snodgrass answered, darting a calculating glance at the stocky man. It almost seemed that she was seeking for some concealed meaning in his words. ‘It’s our bounden duty to show sinners—’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Jeff put in. There’re some riders coming. Five or six, I’d say, from the west.’

  The latter piece of information was mainly for Brady. Riders coming from that point of the compass would be unlikely to have been at the Tavern. Which did not rule out the possibility of them being owlhoots.

  ‘Are you expecting anybody?’ the widow inquired, eyes on Brady’s face.

  ‘Not us, ma’am,’ Brady assured her, noticing that each girl picked up and sat nursing her Bible.

  ‘Don’t alarm yourselves, gentlemen,’ Widow Snodgrass said, calmly continuing to remove skin from the potato in her left hand. ‘Our camp is open to all. We have nothing to fear.’

  Even if Brady and Jeff had been willing to believe the woman’s statement, their convictions would have been shattered as soon as they saw the riders.

  Six well-armed and villainous-looking Mexicans rode unbidden into the circle of fire-light. In the lead, afork the silver-mounted saddle of a fine palomino stallion, was a tall, lean man with a hooked nose and drooping black moustache. He wore costly charro clothes, with a decorative string tie, and his low-tied Colt Artillery Peacemaker had ivory grips inlaid with gold.

  ‘Don’t move!’ the man commanded, as Brady and Jeff tensed. ‘It seems that you know I’m Guillermo Ahumada.’

  With three rifles pointing in their direction, Brady and Jeff had no other choice but to obey. Not that they believed obedience would save their lives. They were all too aware of their deadly peril. At the head of his cut-throat bandido gang, Guillermo Ahumada raided, plundered and murdered his way along the Rio Grande. There was a large reward on his head, but neither of the Texans felt they were in a position to try to collect it. Rather their thoughts were concentrated on finding the means to avoid being slaughtered.

  ‘I care little for who you are,’ Widow Snodgrass declared; ‘You are welcome to our camp and I hope that you will share a meal with us.’

  Despite her calm voice, the widow appeared to be nervous. As she spoke, she dropped the knife. Reaching for it, she shoved it out of sight under her skirts. After a moment’s fumbling, she retrieved it. Or appeared to do so. If Brady and Jeff had been less concerned with watching the Mexicans—and wondering how the hell they were going to survive beyond the next few minutes—they might have noticed that the knife which came out was not the one she had been using to peel the potatoes.

  ‘We aimed to do that, whether invited or not, senora? Ahumada stated, dropping from his saddle and swaggering forward. ‘It seems we’re in luck, amigos. Some good horses, a wagon that must contain things of value—and pretty girls to entertain us.’

  ‘Do you mean to harm my Daughters of the Lord?’ Widow Snodgrass inquired, halting the knife before it touched the half-peeled potato.

  ‘Us, senora?’ grinned Ahumada and leered at his equally amused men. ‘No. We only aim to rape them a little bit.’

  ‘Is that all?’ the widow asked, sounding relieved. ‘I thought you intended to harm them.’

  For a moment, the bandido stared at the woman. Then he threw back his head and started to roar with laughter. In an almost casual gesture, Widow Snodgrass flicked the knife into the air and caught it by the point. Up and down whipped her arm. Steel glinted briefly and wickedly in the fire-light. Ahumada’s guffaw changed into an agonized gurgle. The hilt of the widow’s knife protruded above his string tie. Its blade was buried in his throat.

  At which, all hell burst loose in the camp.

  Taken by surprise at the remarkable turn of events, the Mexicans froze instead of reacting. Which proved to be a terrible mistake.

  Each of the girls had clearly been expecting something spectacular to happen. Three hands flipped open the covers of the nursed Bibles, dipped and appeared grasping Colt Cloverleaf House Pistols. Discarding the books and rising to their feet, they brought up the revolvers to adopt double-handed shooting holds.

  Before the startled Mexicans could make a move in self-preservation, the girls’ Colts began to crash. First to shoot was Sister Sarah and she sent a .41 ball into the head of the man covering Jeff. An instant later, showing a complete disregard for racial bonds, Sister Rosita slammed lead into the centre man of the rifle-armed trio. No less accurately, Sister Bernadette threw her bullet to hit the man who was menacing Brady.

  Startled by the gun shots and cries from the stricken men, the last two Mexicans’ horses began to rear. That added further to the bandidos’ confusion, yet Brady and Jeff realized they were anything but harmless. Inborn equestrian instincts enabled them to stay in their saddles and, with a few seconds’ grace, they would be ready to fight back.

  That few seconds was not to be granted.

  Knowing the kind of men they were dealing with, Brady and Jeff did not hesitate or let feelings of fair play influence them. Rocketing to his feet, Brady snatched out his Thunderer. For once, Jeff beat him to the shot. The way in which the red-head carried his gun possessed a major advantage over most types of holster worn at, or below, waist level. It allowed the wearer to produce his weapon swiftly while seated. So Jeff was already completing his draw as he rose from the trunk.

  Down went the fifth Mexican, with Jeff’s flat-nosed bullet rupturing his heart in passing. Taken once in each eye by the charges ejected by Brady’s Thunderer, the last of them was toppled lifeless from his saddle.

  ‘May the Lord have mercy on those miserable sinners’ souls,’ Widow Snodgrass intoned, as the bandidos’ mounts scattered and her own animals fought against their picket-line. ‘Sarah, Bernadette. Get the hell over there and calm the horses, before the stupid bastards tear loo
se and run to hell and gone.’

  Chapter Fourteen – I Need A Man to Back Me

  ‘Would you and the girls really have killed my nephew and me if we hadn’t said we’d come along with you?’ Brady Anchor inquired as he knelt astride the Widow Snodgrass’s thighs at the conclusion of a most satisfactory session of love making.

  It was, Brady had decided, time to show the blonde something of the kind of man with whom she was dealing.

  Hard-boiled, tough, worldly women had always been attracted to Brady’s cherubic, innocent appearance and Widow Snodgrass had been no exception. In each case, what had subconsciously started as an extension of the maternal instinct had rapidly changed when his true capabilities had unfolded. Having studied the widow for almost twenty-four hours, he considered that she would be suitably impressed by evidence of his shrewd reasoning and intelligence.

  Not one of Ahumada’s party had survived the holocaust of flying lead. Displaying a remarkable calmness, considering what had happened, Widow Snodgrass had asked Brady to ensure that none of the Mexicans were alive and suffering. She had not made any suggestions as to the treatment they would have received if they had been. The situation had not arisen, for they were all dead. Satisfied on that point, she had next requested that Brady and Jeff should catch the bandidos’ scattered mounts.

  By the time Brady and Jeff had returned with Ahumada’s palomino and three more of the horses, stew and coffee were bubbling in pots on the fire. The widow had returned her knife to its sheath on the side of her left boot—Brady did not confirm his suspicion of its hiding place until the next evening—and the girls had replaced their revolvers in the Bibles. While some of them had made a meal, others had searched and laid out the bodies.

  ‘I thought we’d send any money or jewelry to the authorities,’ the widow had explained, indicating a small heap of such items. They can decide what to do with it.’